


Claws at the End of Its Paws

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [151]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Banter, Cat Merlin, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Magical Accidents, Shapeshifting, Spells & Enchantments, Unresolved Sexual Tension, flatmates, they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: A black cat sitting calmly on the living room rug is certainly not the worst surprise Arthur has come home to in recent years.Written for CD Prompts #336 (black cat) and #337 (cemetery).





	Claws at the End of Its Paws

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Two~~ Three things: 
> 
> 1\. What's the difference between a cat and a comma? One has claws at the end of its paws, the other is a pause at the end of a clause.
> 
> 2\. This was inspired by a black cat in my neighbourhood that recently decided to befriend me. Here's to you, as-yet-nameless kitty! =^-^=
> 
> 3\. This is my 200th post on AO3! Thank you for all the comments, kudos and support <3 
> 
> Happy Halloween!

 

There’s acat in the middle of the living room when Arthur gets home.  
  
This in itself isn’t altogether unusual. Arthur’s flatmate, Merlin—aka his best friend, aka his secret crush since God knows when—is a sorcerer, which means he’s prone to making friends with animals and taking in strays from time to time. He has even been known to hold entire conversations with them on occasion, although Arthur has never been able to figure out whether this is because of his magic, or if it’s just one of Merlin’s many personal quirks. Either way, a black cat sitting calmly on the living room rug is certainly not the worst surprise Arthur has come home to in recent years.  
  
There’s something different about this cat, though. As soon as Arthur enters the flat, it lets out a welcoming _mrow_ and trots towards him, winding its way between his legs as though determined to get his attention or lay him out flat on the floor, whichever comes first. When Arthur bends automatically to stroke it, however, the cat darts away into the kitchen, turning back in the doorway to fix him with a pair of mischievous blue eyes that look almost human.  
  
“Well, you’re friendly,” Arthur grumbles, and the cat’s tail twitches as though registering his sarcasm. “Merlin! What have I told you about bringing pets home?”  
  
There’s no answer, which is unusual. Of the two of them, Merlin is usually home first, and it seems highly unlikely that he would leave one of his ‘guests’ in the flat unattended. Frowning, Arthur leaves his briefcase by the door and wanders into the hall, checking both bedrooms and then the kitchen for any sign of his flatmate. Merlin is nowhere to be found, but when he enters the dining room the cat is sitting at the table, licking delicately at one of its paws and so obviously paying no attention to him that Arthur is reminded of his sister, Morgana, when she’s pretending to ignore someone.  
  
“Have you seen Merlin?” Arthur asks it, on the off-chance. You never know with one of Merlin’s strays. “Skinny, dark hair, about yea high?”  
  
The cat stops cleaning itself and makes a sound that, had it not come from a cat, Arthur might have characterised as impatient.  
  
“I’m going to take that as a no,” Arthur says. The cat chirrups, ears swiveling, and Arthur wonders whether he’s imagining it, or if they’re actually having some kind of conversation. “But he has been home, yes? He brought you here?”  
  
The cat lifts its head and stares at him with an expression of long-suffering patience, and Arthur is visited with the uncomfortable suspicion that he knows that look. Knows it very well, in fact, albeit on the face of an entirely different species.  
  
“Don’t tell me,” he says, with a resigned sigh that is only a tiny bit incredulous. “You were messing around with the transfiguration potions again, weren’t you?”  
  
_Mrrrrp_ , says the cat, unblinking.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says, since that’s pretty much a given. “Don’t think I’m going to feel sorry for you if you get stuck like this.”  
  
_Mrrow_ , the cat says cheerfully, jumping down from the table to rub its whiskers against one of Arthur’s legs. It's purring audibly, and Arthur has to turn away to hide his smile. If he’d had any doubts that the cat is actually Merlin, this would have cleared them all up in a heartbeat; Merlin is probably the only person—or cat, as the case may be—who has ever shown such delight at hearing Arthur insult him.  
  
“All right,” he says. “I’m going to assume that this isn’t an emergency and that you’re going to change back into your normal self eventually. In the meantime, I think we have some leftover tuna in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”  
  
The resulting _meow_ leaves no room for interpretation, and Arthur shakes his head as he goes to prepare their dinner. Some things, apparently, never change: no matter what species he is, Merlin will always be ready for a meal.

 

+

 

After dinner, Arthur cues up a Halloween thriller on Netflix and flops onto the couch with a blanket, expecting Merlin to settle down in his favourite armchair to watch the way he usually does. Instead, his flatmate—cat—his catmate?—jumps onto the sofa beside him and curls up a few inches from Arthur’s thigh, flicking an ear in his direction as though daring him to comment on his seating choices. Amused, Arthur says nothing, shifting over so that he can tuck part of the afghan around Merlin as well.  
  
“This is nice,” he says, and then feels stupid. It’s not like this is a date, after all—his best friend is a cat, and probably not even interested in him that way. But it _is_ nice to have Merlin so close, and without quite looking over at him Arthur reaches out a finger to stroke along the ridge of Merlin’s spine, following the grain of the soft black fur where it curves over Merlin's haunches.  
  
Merlin purrs.

 

+

 

The movie ends up being kind of boring, in Arthur’s opinion, although that could be because he’s not really paying much attention to the plot. Instead, he is distracted by the warmth of Merlin at his side, the way the cat seems to be creeping gradually closer as the film progresses, until Arthur can feel tiny, needle-like claws prickling through his trousers during each jump-scare. Finally, when the heroine trips and falls while fleeing through a cemetery, Merlin springs into Arthur’s lap with a yowl of alarm, the fur on the back of his neck bristling into a startled ruff.  
  
“You’re quite ridiculous, you know,” Arthur informs him, ignoring Merlin's baleful glare as he disintangles Merlin's claws from his shirt. “You're a bloody wizard. What do you have to be afraid of?"  
  
Merlin narrows his eyes, his lashing tail clearly communicating his displeasure, and if he could talk Arthur has no doubt he would say something pointed about _empathy_ and _the power of imagination_ , and how just because Arthur has the emotional range of a teaspoon—thank you, Hermione Granger—doesn’t mean everyone is immune to creepy music and scary serial killers jumping out of the bushes to stab people. He still lets Arthur pet him, though, and allows Arthur to pull him close and smooth down his ruffled fur without protest. He doesn't even squirm away when Arthur starts scratching behind his ears.

  
  
+

  
  
It’s after one am when Arthur wakes; the TV screen has long since gone black, and for a moment he can’t remember what he’s doing in the living room. His body feels strangely immobile, like there’s a heavy weight draped over his chest, and when he tries to roll over it shifts against him with a muttered complaint, jabbing him in the stomach with a bony elbow. Arthur goes still.  
  
“Merlin?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur pokes his flatmate—now miraculously returned to his human self—between the ribs, and Merlin jerks slightly, making a noise of protest as he bats Arthur’s hand away. “You’re human again, and you’re crushing me. Also, you’re naked,” Arthur adds, the realisation hitting him at about the same time as the panic. “Um. Why are you naked?”  
  
“Because I just turned back into a person, _obviously_ ,” Merlin hisses, sounding a lot like his feline self as he struggles to sit up. “I’ve been a cat for twelve hours. Shapeshifting doesn’t come with a change of wardrobe—it's pretty much an as is, where is situation.”  
  
“Right.” Uncertain whether he should move or not, Arthur lies there and tries to gather his wits. This proves surprisingly difficult, given that one of Merlin’s knees is now sliding between his legs, leaving other parts of his body pressed against Arthur’s— “Er. This is awkward.”  
  
“Shut up,” Merlin mutters, finally pushing himself upright. Light from a streetlamp filters through the open blinds, illuminating his flushed cheeks and embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you, but—well.” He tugs up the afghan to cover himself. “I was comfortable. The spell must have worn off once the clock turned midnight; that's how this usually works.”  
  
“Does this sort of thing happen to you often, then?” Arthur asks, mostly to take his mind off the fact that Merlin is sitting naked and half on top of him. The fact that he's also straddling one of Arthur's thighs is not doing his libido any favours. “Waking up starkers after taking naps on people?”  
  
“No! This is the first time! At least—this is the first time it’s happened while I was a cat." Merlin bites his lip, looking sheepishly at his hands. "You make a surprisingly comfortable sleeping cushion.”  
  
“Thank you?” Arthur isn’t sure whether that’s supposed to be a compliment, but he’ll take it. “You make a surprisingly cuddly cat.”  
  
They grin at each other for a long moment, before Merlin seems to remember where he is and what he’s wearing. Or rather, what he isn’t wearing. With a quiet curse, he scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping over the blanket and braining himself on the coffee table in the process, and Arthur shakes his head mournfully at the spectacular display of clumsiness.  
  
“And you were so much more graceful before,” he says. Merlin snorts, catching his balance at the last second and flipping Arthur the bird as he shuffles towards the door.  
  
“Quiet, you,” he says. “Or next time I won’t be so careful with my claws.”  
  
He’s gone before Arthur can do more than ask, “Next time?”, but that's all right. He can still feel the imprint of Merlin’s head where it had rested against his chest, warm and certain as a promise, and a slow grin unfurls across his face in the dark.  
  
_Next time_. He rather likes the sound of that.


End file.
